


saints and strictures

by naruhoe



Series: by your side (i’ll be there) [6]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Overseers - Freeform, Royal Spymaster Daud (Dishonored)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-21 20:21:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17649245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naruhoe/pseuds/naruhoe
Summary: Daud has an unnerving encounter.(Spymaster!Daud AU)





	saints and strictures

Even as a child, Daud knew well the danger of the Abbey of Everyman. He learned quickly how to disappear into a crowd when he caught the golden glint of an Overseer's mask out of the corner of his eye, how to duck his head to casually avoid the preaching Overseer, with his table of mysterious artefacts, on the corner. He learned his strictures early, far earlier than the rest of his classmates, the wandering gaze and the restless hands, each word perfect and decisive off of the roll of his tongue, their importance, if not their meanings, drilled into him by the two worn hands that would alight upon his shoulders when he misspoke a word. 

Daud does not remember his mother's face, only her voice, her stern, hoarse voice, the irregular cadences of the consonants and the hushed, brittle vowels. Sometimes, though, he catches a whiff of feverfew, or bitter willow bark, and he's there again, a small boy (even smaller for his age) with clenched fists and a blackened eye that angrily jerks his chin away from the probing fingers that smell of feverfew, and willow bark, and a thousand other bitter herbs. ( _'...they called you a heretic. t_ _hey said the Abbey would burn you...'_

These days, though, Daud does not bother to dwell much on his misspent, misremembered youth. As Royal Spymaster, an exhaustingly _public_ position, he can no longer simply fade into a crowd, and there are always, _always_ eyes on him. It's taken some getting used to: the fact that he is no longer able to conduct his own missions, but despite his best efforts, on the best days Daud still aches for the comforting weight of his blade in his hand. He longs for the thrill of transversing across two rooftops at a time. Last night, he'd woken in the pitch dark to the brackish scent of the Wrenhaven tickling his nose, the blasted mark on the back of his hand stretched taut and thrumming with a glow of power because he'd been clenching his fist in his sleep tightly enough to make his fingers ache.

As if to add to his problems, Rulfio's taken to hounding him, sometimes literally dragging him off on walks, and Thomas is no better, if in a less obnoxious matter, for which Daud is grateful. Regardless of good intentions, however, it seems like whenever he turns around, there's a some idiot with a pouty expression coaxing him away from his desk. ( _"Coffee, sir?" Asks Thomas, unbearably polite and insufferably insistent. "You look like shit." Says Rulfio. "Sir." He hurriedly amends, after catching sight of his superior's expression._ )

It's for this reason that when he hears a rap of knuckles against the frame of his office's door (Open, after someone took to leaving cold cups of tea in the hall that Daud would- and did -tread on. And broke.), Daud doesn't even bother to raise his head. "I like to consider myself a patient man." He says, flatly. "I did, once. But, by the Outsider, push me one more time today and I _will_ reassign you to patrol at first light for the next two weeks so fast your head will spin. _What?_ " Daud snaps, pushing off from his desk as he turns around to find that his visitor is neither Rulfio, nor Thomas, or even Corvo, who visits infrequently and at odd hours. It is an Overseer.

The Overseer stands silently for a moment, apparently indulging Daud so that he might take in his guest's sudden appearance first, before the golden mask tilts forward slightly. "Royal Spymaster. I assume you were expecting someone different." Daud resists the urge to scrub a hand across his face and curse his black luck, but quashes it, along with the distaste that sours the back of his mouth to see one of them here. 

"My apologies." Daud says shortly, not bothering to take his seat, not while the Overseer remains. "It has been a long day." Apparently sensing Daud's discomfort, the Overseer's mask tilts again as he inclines his head in what seems to be acceptance of the half truth. Daud wonders what expression the man is wearing beneath it. He's never liked Overseers, not only by the nature of what marks the back of his left hand, but because of the masks. Body language is all well and good, but the body can be trained. The eyes don't lie. And Daud can't see this man's eyes.

"I am Brother Hartford, a representative of the Abbey." The muffled quality of the man's voice invokes unpleasant memories. ( _Knee-deep in stagnant water, heart pumping, knife dripping blood- "They took us by surprise-" -Billie's face, twisted in remorse, eyes at once accepting and stricken as she tilts her face up- The bodies of his men, strewn like so much garbage across the wreckage of Rudshore- "I thought the great Daud was a master assassin... All it took was one mistake, and you were **finished**.") _Daud watches with unease as the Overseer begins to move about his office, examining the bookshelves, the barren walls, even one of the paper balls that has escaped the trash bin as if there might be some damning evidence written upon its surface.

In the end, it's just a paper ball, and when the Overseer has apparently concluded that there really _is_ nothing heretic pasted on the walls or between the gaps in the bookshelf, he returns his attention to Daud, who calmly meets the masked gaze as he eases himself up onto the edge of his desk, gloved fingers curling around its edges. It feels like an interrogation. "A pleasure." Daud says in a voice like gravel, when the Overseer simply waits, instead of continuing. Placated, the man crosses his arms across his chest and makes a low sound as if pleased, standing dead center in the middle of the room on the ugly rug that Daud had brought in to hide the mysterious scratches on the floor.

"As you know, it is the Abbey's duty to its people to protect them from- shall we say..  _heretical_ influences." Hartford says. Daud sits pretty. Both of them know full well that the only ' _heretical influence_ ' in this room is Daud himself. "There have been some rather disturbing rumors circulating around, of late. Shrines in the sewers, charms washing up at the docks..." The Overseer says. Daud might not be able to see the man's face, but he can feel the gaze that bores into him.

"Witches and heretics, living among us." Hartford says softly, finally looking away, off to the side, as if he's seen something in the window. Daud forces himself to keep looking steadily at the other, gritting his teeth and hoping that his men aren't stupid enough to transverse in broad daylight. "You wouldn't happen to have heard any of these rumors, would you, Daud?" 

Daud meets Hartford's masked gaze head-on. Where the Spymaster sits on the edge of his desk, the sunlight from the window illuminates the right side of his face, casting the left into shadow. His grey eyes are dark and unreadable. "No. I can't say that I have." Says Daud. 

Hartford shifts in place. Daud can just imagine the smile on the bastard's face. He can sure as hell hear it in his voice. "I'm surprised." Hartford says. There is no surprise in his voice. "With all of your informants, your position, it merely seems.. improbable." Daud's mouth pulls into a thin line as the clock chimes above his head. Three o'clock. Hartford's head tilts up, apparently studying it. "Regardless," The slimy bastard says, in that silk-smooth way of his, "we shall have to continue this conversation later. I would not want to take up any more of your time, and I fear I am already late, myself."

"Of course not." Daud says. He does not move to shake Hartford's hand, or incline his head in any way, but he _does_ smile. It's a wan, jagged thing, his smile, lips stretched thin over gritted teeth. His mother told him never trust a witch. Daud doesn't trust much of anybody, but right about now, witches are the furthest thing from his mind. "Another time, Brother Hartford." 

"Indeed." Hartford walks with the steady gait of someone used to getting his way. Daud dislikes him even more for it.

Daud waits until he can no longer hear the bastard's footsteps to transverse one floor up into his quarters, appearing a few paces from the chest at the end of his bed. Opening it, Daud tosses the folded clothing that lies on the top onto the end of the bed, uncaring for the way they crumple and unfold in his hands. Three things line the bottom of the chest, but right now, Daud only cares for one of them. It is carefully wrapped in several layers of cloth, and Daud gropes for the back of the chair he knows is close by with one hand as he peels the layers apart with the other.

As he sits down, Daud's fingers wrap around the handle of his knife. Very few things in Daud's life have felt right, but this- this is right. It is meant for him, and he for it. His fingers unbuckle the sword- perfectly forged to regulation standards but not for Daud’s hands -from his belt. Daud lets it slide from his fingers to the floorboards with a dull clatter. There is no sheath, not yet, but knife fits on his belt far better than the sword ever did.

His mother told him never trust a witch. Daud trusts only two things in this world, and one of them is hanging from his belt as he leaves his quarters.

**Author's Note:**

> Could it be... plot? No Corvo this time, sorry. More of a character study with a sprinkling of plot. Hopefully it wasn’t too dreadfully boring to read. All feedback is appreciated!


End file.
